Standing beside a large, shiny cylinder which appeared to be draped in white cloth and thick, silky ropes. I was four and my eldest brother had taken me to see this landmine, which I presume had been made safe! Crazy!
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The occasional lesson taken in the garden of Chelsfield school on a sunny summer’s afternoon.
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The damp, musty concrete smell of the school air-raid shelter to which we had to repair in the event of an air raid.
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Standing in front of our house and seeing a fighter plane, which I think was a Hurricane, in a shallow dive, seemingly just above our roof. I distinctly remember the roar and rattle of the engine and the camouflage colours of the paintwork. It was clear, even to a four year old, that it was out of control and was going to crash.
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During air-raids my father always stood outside the Anderson shelter, to watch the aerial activity, but to us children always said “You get in that shelter, it’s not safe out here!” There were enemy aircraft overhead, which were being engaged by our anti-aircraft guns. On the morning following I used to go out and collect shrapnel which had fallen to earth, and it was not difficult to find. Dad was quite right, it was not safe out there, except apparently for him! Maybe he knew something the rest of us didn’t, or had direct communication to someone influential, because he survived the war!
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An official of some description, but I know not who or what, came to the school for the purpose of checking the children’s gas masks. On inspecting mine he declared it unserviceable, due to a cracked visor. This was in the form of a piece of transparent plastic material, oval in shape and sewn into the rubber mask. “I shall take this away and bring you another,” said he. “Meet me here, in the cloakroom, before you go home this afternoon”. I waited at the appointed time and place but saw neither hide nor hair of this worthy, nor yet of my replacement respirator. As a consequence, I must have been the the only child in the country who spent the entire war without a gas mask. But thereagain, I was the youngest of six children, and as such was probably regarded as expendable. The fact is, of course, that the German High Command was aware of my predicament, and being unwilling to make war on defenceless children, resisted the urge to use poison gas against South-East England!
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The newly painted classrooms on returning to school after the summer holidays. Always the same colours; cream above, dark green below with a black line round the middle.
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The utterly disgusting beakers, made of some form of plastic material, possibly casein, from which we drank, sometimes our milk and sometimes water. They were of about three different ‘colours’ and all uniformly filthy, being only ever rinsed under a cold tap.
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Living in the house next door was a boy, six months younger than myself, who proved himself, at our very first encounter, to be thoroughly unpleasant. I distinctly remember that we faced each other through a paling fence and that he, after a few seconds of silent confrontation, spat in my face. This was my introduction to Norman, who proved, over the seven years we lived in that house, to be a bully, a liar and a petty thief. Should he, or his thoroughly decent older brother, Eric, read these words, then I can only say that it was so. He is still remembered in my family for his propensity for stealing and running off with any item small enough to carry. Seen making-off down our path with his ill-gotten gains, we would challenge him with “Hey!, that’s ours!” to which he replied “‘S’mine now!” and continue running!
The story I intended telling, however, is of his waylaying of me on my journey home from school. The school day started and ended with a walk of about a mile, to and from home. In the morning I usually had an older brother for company, but the homeward journey I walked alone. I was five years old and in the infants class, so possibly my school day finished earlier than my brother’s. Howsoever, this little nasty used to make sure he was ahead of me and would wait, out of sight, always at the same spot. When I reached his “lair” he would appear in front of me, saying “Fight!” I was really frightened of him, and all day I dreaded the homeward journey. I usually managed to get past him and he then followed me home, with more demands that I put my fists up and similar phrases. I cannot say, accurately, how long I had to endure this torment, but I do know that it was weeks. Suddenly there was a dramatic turnaround!
One afternoon I reached the feared spot and my tormentor appeared. “Fight!” he demanded and this time threw a fist, which just grazed my face. This was too much! I let fly with my fists and I gave him a pasting, the like of which he had never had before, or probably, since! I am not sure which of us was the more surprised. It had never crossed my mind in those weeks of bullying by this pint-sized thug that I might be able to beat him in a fight. But beat him I did, and reduced him to a quivering jelly. What’s more, over the ensuing weeks I followed his example, and I used to wait for him in the same spot. I showed him the same fear that he had shown me and I just hope he learned something!
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The outbreak of war saw the establishment of an ‘army’ comprised mainly of men either too old or too young for military service. Their purpose was to act as resistance fighters in the event of occupation. The title originally given to this body was ‘Local Defence Volunteers’. The abbreviation to L.D.V. soon gave rise to the corruption ‘Look, Duck and Vanish’ and so the title was changed to ‘Home Guard’.
The local branch of this fine body of warriors took as their training area, the park adjacent to our home. Their parade facility was the clubhouse of the Westcombe Park Rugby Club. They would meet there on Sunday mornings and take part in various military activities, among which was training in the use of that fearsome weapon of destruction, the Smith gun. Two of these were kept in the clubhouse. The gun was run out for action on its two solid wheels. When the appropriate position was reached, it was turned over onto one of its wheels. This allowed it to traverse, in order to engage enemy tanks, trucks and infantry. I believe this device could hurl its projectile, under favourable conditions, a full one hundred yards. Don’t risk it, Fritz!
Smith gun details: www.home-guard.org.uk
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My Father
The Home Guard played a prominent role on this particular year, however. They demonstrated their prowess as fighting men, with demonstrations of their expertise with the previously mentioned Smith gun, as well as with their other weapon of mass destruction, the legendary trench mortar. They were at their most impressive, though, with their signals demonstrations. From their position at the cricket pavilion they used an Aldis lamp to send, in morse code, the names of the various competitors in these events, and each person’s guess as to the numbers. They also signalled the results of races etc. These signals were received by further members of this elite band, who were positioned about a mile-and-a-half away in the lantern roof of a fortuitously placed house on a hill-top. This group of people received these messages and, at the conclusion of the festivities, signalled the results back to the pavilion. The winners of the various competitions were then announced.
However, my father stole their thunder by providing an express results service! He had been a signaller in the first world war and was expert in morse, semaphore etc. As soon as he saw what was happening he ensconced himself at the far side of the recreation ground from the signallers, in line of sight with both positions. With a small group around him he happily read out the outward signals and then, later, all the incoming results!
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During my last year at primary school, I was one of a small group of pupils who had to undergo a weekly dose of religious indoctrination at the hands of the village vicar, Rev McKay. These lessons took place in the village hall, or ‘Reading Room’ as it was quaintly named. We would sit for half-an-hour, huddled round a small gas fire, while this boring, vindictive old bastard would try to make us learn various religious tracts. I never knew how our education was supposed to be furthered by this claptrap and I can certainly remember wondering on many occasions “Does this old fool seriously believe all this?”.
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“Look out, here comes Gilham!” was a warning often given by one or other of we kids as we played in the local park. ‘Gilham’ was of course the hated enemy, the park-keeper with whom we carried on a running battle for all of the seven years we lived there. What is it about park-keepers? I suppose today they would happily find employment as traffic wardens! The man in question was always hounding us, and whilst we were not angels, neither were we the threat to his domain that he saw in us. The occasion that I remember is when he came after us for some perceived crime. We all ran off, but the smallest among us, Charlie Tyler, who was five years old at the most, left behind a pull-along toy. I seem to remember that he had been given this at Christmas and that it was a wooden lorry. From a short distance away, we watched our tormentor ‘capture’ this item and pull it behind him as he pushed his wheelbarrow back to his lair! I believe some of the older boys went and got it back, no doubt with a telling off for whatever act of civil disobedience we had all perpetrated.
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At roughly eleven years old I developed a liking for a little girl of about nine. Her name was Jill Sage and I took to accompanying her towards her home each day, after school. As her home was not directly en route to mine, this involved a bit of a detour. On the first occasion I did so, my mother demanded to know why I was late getting home. I told her where I had been during the lost fifteen minutes, at which she became very cross and told me I was not to do so again. Some chance! Every day for some time after, the pattern was the same. I would go with Jill and rush back home on my bike. Then the inevitable “Have you been with that girl again?” “No!” “Yes you have!”. One afternoon I went as far as Jill’s house and in so doing, passed the home of some family friends, Dave and Alice Sawyer. On arrival home I went through the same question and answer ritual with my mother. That evening the parents decided we should visit Dave and Alice. As we got out of the car at their house, the first thing Alice said to me was, “Hello Barry, I saw you go past with your girlfriend this afternoon”. And of course to employ a modern expression, the shit hit the fan! Thanks Alice!
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The day I famously set fire to a field of long grass, whilst making a ‘campfire’ in one corner. This to the consternation of my mother and sister, who caught sight of the conflagration as they walked home from the village.
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Another occasion, in the same field, whilst out walking the dog, I heard a doodlebug approaching and turned to watch for it. It came very low over a nearby woodland known as Oashes Wood and the whole of the rear fuselage was aflame as occasionally happened if the pulse-jet engine developed a fault. The engine spluttered and stopped as it was almost overhead. I grabbed the dog and lay flat on top of it, in fear for my life and thinking my last minutes had come. However, it continued its glide and came down in Petts Wood, some three miles distant, crashing onto a bungalow and killing two unfortunate people.
Just outside the village was Lilleys Farm, which I passed on my way to school each morning. (But probably not on the way home, as I often made a detour!) On the evening of June 20th 1944 a V1 ‘Doodlebug’, apparently intercepted by a Mosquito fighter, came down at this farm. A large house, presumably originally the farmhouse, was destroyed. These premises were used as a kennels and were owned by a Mr and Mrs Chapman, both of whom, sadly, were killed. The memory I have is of the oddly conical pile of rubble, to which this lovely house was reduced.
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The next memory is of my older brother, Ted, whom I trust will forgive me. He is my senior by six years, so at the time of this event he was about 16 and I was 10. I believe he was working as a baker’s roundsman at the time and was about as short-tempered as any lad of that age. I have an enduring memory of Ted coming home from work one evening, in a foul temper and hurling himself down into a wooden kitchen chair. What I have never forgotten about this, is that the chair made no attempt whatsoever to arrest his floorwards progress! As he hit it, it simply disintegrated into its component parts and accompanied him to the floor. It was as though the legs, seat and backrest had all been simply balanced there awaiting an unsuspecting victim.
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Ted again, but this time as a 12 year old. A soldier had come down from the camp at Chelsfield House to see one or other of my sisters. He parked his army lorry on the road and went up the long, narrow path to our house. Ted saw his opportunity and said to me “I could drive that”, and promptly proceeded to climb into the cab. He started the engine and made off towards the end of the cul-de-sac in which we lived. He was turning the truck round, at a point about two-hundred yards away, when the soldier came running down the path in something of a panic. I don’t think Ted was his favourite person at that moment but I do wonder how far he would have had to run if he had left his lorry facing out of the cul-de-sac! I now have it on the authority of the perpetrator that the driver had good cause to be worried. It seems the Chevrolet truck, as such it was, carried a cargo of artillery shells!
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We lived, at this time at the edge of a public park which was surrounded by a narrow strip of woodland. One day, one of our ‘gang’ of youngsters noticed that a cat had become marooned on a branch of a good-sized oak tree. It was apparently unable to summon up the courage to attempt the descent so we decided to be good samaritans and rescue it. We fetched the necessary equipment, which consisted of a blanket and a clothes prop! Four of us younger kids took the corners of the blanket and stretched it out in what we judged to be the correct location for moggy-catching. One of the older boys, I’m not sure who, then stretched upwards with the clothes prop and placed the fork under the belly of the unsuspecting feline. With a mighty heave the animal was dislodged from the security of the branch and sent flying through the air! It came down nowhere near the blanket, but landed on all fours and made off like a bat out of hell. Any more cats to be rescued?